Wayneby Andrew McCallum Crawford

Genre:DramaSwearwords: None.Description:A young Scottish man is having difficulty adjusting to a life of loneliness in Northern Greece when a stranger shows him an interesting trick with a telephone._____________________________________________________________________The phone only received incoming calls. It was one of the first things the landlord had told me; too many tenants doing a runner without paying the bill. As soon as he left I tried to phone my sister. After the first 0 the line went dead. That was me screwed. I asked around to find out what was what. The telephone exchange was the place to go to if you wanted to phone abroad, but that was an hour's walk from the flat. I noticed that no one was offering to let me call from their house, even though they must have seen how desperate I was. I had decided to treat myself. Three individual sachets of Nescafé were in my pocket. A young man was standing near my block, watching me approach. I’d seen him on the way down to the shop. As I drew level, it became clear that he was going to speak to me.‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Are you English?’He sounded like a Geordie. I respected his intent. Maybe he was as lonely as me. But I had to put him straight.‘No,’ I said. ‘Scottish. You sound like you’re from Newcastle.’‘Middlesbrough,’ he said, and offered me a hand. ‘My name’s Wayne.’I asked him to come in. He didn’t seem surprised by the state of the place. The room was three paces by three, with a tiny kitchen and toilet off a narrow corridor. ‘There you go,’ I said, and handed him a cup of coffee.‘Cheers, mate,’ he said. ‘Nice mug.’‘You should feel special,’ I said. ‘That’s the first time I’ve used it.’He was a carpenter to trade. He’d been in Greece since the summer, working on the grip when he could get it. But his boss was going through a lean spell. Work was scarce. I felt a bit uptight. It sounded like he was getting round to something.The phone rang. It was far too loud for such a small room, but there was no way of regulating it. Someone sniggered on the other end then hung up. It was the third time it had happened that week. Let’s phone the foreigner. What a laugh. Idiots. Wayne told me he had a room a couple of blocks down the hill. We had the same landlord.‘Has he doctored your phone?’ he said.‘You, too?’ I said. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘but there’s an easy way round it.’He picked up the receiver and dialled 0. He looked at me. The line was dead, as I knew it would be. He hung up. Then he lifted the receiver again and patted the cradle, counting from one to ten. There was a dialling tone.‘That’s the first 0,’ he said. ‘After that you just dial the rest of the number.’‘You’re joking,’ I said.He finished his coffee in one mighty gulp.‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘There’s a chance of an afternoon’s graft at the workshop. Thanks for the chat.’I walked him out to the pavement. I don’t know why. It had been nice talking to someone. Maybe we would end up as friends.‘Mind,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to pay for the calls.’I went back inside and sat on the bed. I stared at the phone and sipped lukewarm coffee, wondering if I should risk it.

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About the Author

Andrew McCallum Crawford was born in Grangemouth and now lives in Greece. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, Junk Junction, The Athens News and Ink Sweat and Tears. His first novel, Drive! – a story of 1980’s Edinburgh pub rock, attempted patricide and arson – was published last year.His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.